


write me what you want to hear

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fantasizing, Fluff, Humor, Matchmaking, Modern Westeros, Romantic Comedy, Secret Crush, Secret Identity, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-03-02 21:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13327110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: from @jonsa-prompts on tumblr (submitted by @amymel86): After finding out that Sansa hides behind the pen name Alayne Stone, the author of a successful erotic novel, Jon isn’t able to see his best friend’s little sister quite in the same light.





	1. dear diary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amymel86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/gifts).



> a/n: dedicated to amy, bc it was her idea in the first place. (on that note, any and all complaints re: my excess of wips can now be addressed to amy, who hasn’t actually agreed to be my representative on the matter, but i’ve appointed her as such, anyway.)
> 
> special thanks to my jonsa wife, ang, for supplying the title of sansa’s erotic novel series (which will be revealed in chapter 2) (also ang wanted me to use the title for the actual fic but i’m a coward, so using it in-universe will have to suffice)

It all starts, as these things do, with Margaery Tyrell.

She’s the one who convinces Sansa to take her love for songs and stories and all things romantic, and turn them into a successful career — a commodity; an opportunity to grow, as it were. After all, if Sansa couldn’t apply such notions as true love and happily-ever-after to her real life with any success (and her relationship history is evidence enough that she couldn’t), she might as well make some money off her own misery.

“That’s nice, Marg,” she drawls when her best friend makes the suggestion. “Nice way to put it.”

“I’m not here to comfort you,” Margaery reminds her. “That’s what all those empty post-breakup calories are for. And I think you’ve had quite enough of those, by the way —”

“Mmph!” Sansa protests around a mouthful of ice cream, the tub of which Margaery had just deftly plucked from her grasp. _“Woman —”_

“Your arse will thank me later,” Margaery says confidently. She drops Sansa’s notebook in her lap and taps one finely manicured nail against the screen. “Now take all that moping about Harry sodding Hardyng and channel it into something worth reading, because I’m not going to lend you my ear about it anymore.”

Sansa knows Margaery’s penchant for tough love far too intimately to take offense. She also knows that Margaery had never liked Harry to begin with, so her behavior comes as no surprise regardless.

And if Sansa is completely honest with herself, she’s not even sure how much _she_ had liked Harry, not only to begin with but throughout the course of their relationship, too. If she’s been mourning anything in the past two weeks since their breakup, it’s more her loss of pride than loss of boyfriend. She hadn’t done anything to warrant this humiliation, but Harry wasn’t exactly known for his monogamy, and as such she should have seen his string of flings coming. But she’d ignored her better sensibilities, all in favor of that all-encompassing quest for _true love_.

Really, this breakup is something of a godsend. Harry Hardyng isn’t exactly true love material, and despite her self-esteem issues following _x_ -many bad relationships, Sansa still knows, deep down, that she deserves better. It’s just that she tends to realize these things in hindsight, rather than in a timely fashion as to avoid disaster altogether.

But none of that is the _point_ right now. Or, at least, Sansa really doesn’t feel like embarking on some grand journey of self-introspection when she has one of Margaery’s schemes to stop before it gets wildly out of hand, and Sansa will be forced to deal with the fallout. While it would certainly be a welcome distraction from Harry, and Sansa’s consequent feelings of inadequacy, it would probably cost her a fortune in legal fees, as Margaery’s schemes tend to be elaborate and questionably moral, if not downright illicit.

This one doesn’t seem as though it would get _that_ out of hand, Sansa reasons, but _you never know_.

“Margaery —” Sansa makes to shut her laptop, but Margaery holds the screen upright with an iron grip. Not wanting to risk chipping her friend’s nails, as such a thing violates girl code to the _n_ th degree, Sansa relents the physical struggle, if not the verbal one. “Who’s to say I’d be any good at this? You can’t promise me a contract with Redwyne Romance —”

 _“Sansaaaaaa,”_ Margaery whines, pouting and flopping back onto the couch for good measure, “you’re ruining my life!”

“I’m trying to save your career,” Sansa counters, ever practical amidst her flatmate’s dramatics. “I might write complete trash and you’ll feel obligated to vouch for me, anyway, and then your grandmother will have you committed for poor judgment and potential company ruin because of it.”

Margaery rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. I already know you can write. I’ve read your diary.”

“You’ve —” Sansa’s mouth opens and shuts and opens again. Obviously _she_ knows what she’s written in her diary, and she’d hoped those secrets would follow her to the grave. And now that Margaery knows…

Oh, god. Margaery _knows._

Sansa feels as though she may be ill. 

“You’ve done _what_?” Sansa finishes, unable to comprehend the sheer magnitude of Margaery _knowing_ , or perhaps simply afraid to comprehend such a thing, for surely her mind would implode on impact if she accepted her fate now.

Sure enough, Margaery smirks. The proverbial cat who caught the canary — that’s Margaery Tyrell to a tee. Oftentimes Sansa feels like the canary.

“Honestly, Sansa.” Margaery places a hand over her heart, as if wounded when really she’s milking the ever-living shite out of this whole situation. “You’ve been thirsting over Jon Snow for pages upon _pages_ , and I was never the wiser. I thought we were better friends than that.”

As much as Sansa would like to contest this — any of it — she can’t. Margaery’s already seen the evidence, and Sansa won’t be any good at lying if anyone forced her to own up to the fact that her dearest ambition is to fuck Jon Snow into oblivion.

Because if she were forced to own up to that, it would be that much more difficult for her to take those thoughts and lock them away into the corner of her mind she only accesses late at night when she can’t sleep. She’d have to explain it, and if she wants to avoid emotional investment — and she _does_ want to avoid it, lest she fall victim to the heartbreak and humiliation she’d endured from everyone else, and she couldn’t bear it if Jon were just  _anyone else_ (forget the complications involved with the object of her affections being her brother’s longtime best friend, but Sansa’s fragile heart just couldn’t take it any which way) — explaining it simply isn’t an option. She doesn’t want to rationalize her sexual fantasies; she just wants to hold them close and use them when necessary, and the very last thing she needs is for Margaery to try to make those fantasies a reality.

Not that Sansa would say no to such an entanglement with Jon, it’s just…

God, here she goes. Her secret is hardly out of the bag and already Sansa is trying to rationalize it. That won’t do. So she shoves it to the back of her mind where it belongs and hopes — _prays_ , _begs_ , barters her own _life_ for it — that Margaery will do the same (she won’t, but Sansa refuses to think on that right now).

“What will it take for you to never mention this again?” she wants to know, as though her decision on the matter is final and incontestable. If Sansa had a sense of humor about her own love life, this mentality she’d chosen to adopt for survival purposes would have made her laugh herself to death. There’s a stroke of irony in there somewhere, but Sansa is far too emotionally compromised to identify it at this precise moment. 

 _“Well…”_ Margaery’s smirk only widens, and she taps the laptop screen once more in such a way that demands a finality and incontestability that Sansa could never hope to match. 

And while Sansa is sure that this isn’t the end of it, she’d already decided that this — writing, and pursuing a career inspired by her own sorry bad luck at love — would be a good distraction nonetheless, didn’t she? It’s not like she has anything else going for her right now, or in the immediate future, so there’s little left to lose. Other than the final vestiges of her pride, that is, but better to surrender those to her own whims rather than the likes of Harry’s, or anyone else like him. 

So she scowls, but opens a fresh word document all the same, and tells her friend, “If I’m as terrible at this as I think I’m going to be, you’re footing my bills the rest of my sad, celibate life.”

Margaery, unaffected by any and all negativity as per ush, claps her hands with a delighted squeal. She announces that she’s uncorking the good wine for the occasion, which — much to Sansa’s protests, mind — will henceforth be known as “How Sansa Got Her Groove Back: the Erotic Novel Edition.”


	2. jon snow and the secret stash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: another shout-out to ang for providing the romance novel title, thanks babe

Theon Greyjoy isn’t what Jon would call the romance novel-reading type, but that doesn’t stop him from roaming the shelves for a good laugh.

Not that Jon ever joins him in the laugh, because it’s stupid and embarrassing and really Jon just comes here for the coffee. He’s not about to shop for dirty paperback books with any of his mates, least of all Theon, who would drag him straight to hell if he ever became privy to such information.

But Jon, despite his personal flaws, doesn’t fancy himself stupid or embarrassing, and as such he takes romance novels rather seriously. They’re the leading literary genre for a reason, after all, and Jon’s not about to dismiss that based on his friends’ internalized misogyny.

“You’re an idiot,” Gilly had stated once, some months ago, crisp and to the point, when the boys had been playing cards at the flat she shares with Sam.

The comment had naturally been directed at Theon, who had been taking the mickey out of a recent romantic comedy film trailer, but all the boys had hotly protested Gilly’s judgment. Not that their pleas and half-arsed arguments made any difference to her; rather, Gilly — who already spent her days educating the ignorant youth — had taken it as a teaching opportunity, and had schooled her boyfriend and his mates on What Women Want, and why they went running to romcoms and erotic novels when men inevitably fail them, time after time.

“Men get off watching action films because they portray the male fantasy — the heroes are what you all want to be,” Gilly had explained with nearly as much patience as she displayed in the classroom (only a tad less, since grown men should already know these things). “They’re all beefy and rugged and everyone finds their misogyny charming for no discernable reason. And often that’s how the hero starts off in your traditional romance novel —”

“Paperback porn,” Theon had chimed in.

“Yes, so much less sophisticated than whatever it is you look up online to get your jollies,” Gilly shot back. “But at least _I_ don’t have to worry about computer viruses.”

Properly chastised, Theon waved a hand, inviting her to continue, and Gilly had let them in on the secret:

“The thing about the romance novel is that no matter the nature of the hero, in the end the heroine _brings him to his knees_. He has to change, he has to be better, or he doesn’t get the girl, which is the whole point. Getting the girl is his _modus operandi_ , and he’ll achieve it by any means necessary. So if any of you ever want to pursue an actual relationship — or, gods forbid, please a woman in bed — I’d recommend you start a book club.”

Jon can’t speak for anyone else sat ‘round the table, but he had certainly taken Gilly’s advice to heart. To an extent, anyway, since the book club is obviously a no-go. He might be confident enough to buy the books on his own, but he’d be caught dead before he let Theon or even Robb in on his ever-expanding but nevertheless secret stash of romance novels.

Sam knows, of course, as Gilly had convinced him to read such books long before she gave his mates a good talking-to, but they don’t discuss it unless Jon’s looking for recommendations. Robb would likely be nonplussed, should he ever find out, but Jon shudders to think of the questions that would follow. Certainly Robb would want to know who Jon meant to sweep off her feet — because what had Gilly’s lecture been for, if not to help their sorry arses settle down with a nice girl? — and Jon, coward that he could be, doesn’t know how to tell his best friend that he’s hot for his sister.

Not that Jon would say it quite that way. Something like “I’m in love with Sansa,” declared clumsily and out-of-nowhere, is much more his style. But he can’t say that, either. He’s never so much as taken Sansa on a date or kissed her or demonstrated his interest in any way whatsoever. He wants to, _badly_ , but it’s been longer than he’d care to admit since he developed this attachment to her and still he doesn’t know how to proceed.

The situation isn’t terribly complicated, he knows. But Sansa has had shit luck with men and Jon wants to be good enough for her — not just better than her ex-boyfriends, either; he wants to be more than a consolation prize. He wants to be what she needs, what she wants, regardless of what she’s had in the past.

And, of course, Jon wants her to want him back. And therein lies the true complication, because he doesn’t know if she does or if she could or if he should even bother trying, and he hasn’t the slightest inkling as how to find out.

( _Ask her_ , probably, but somehow this notion is the most absurd thing Jon can think of, and so he never follows through on it.)

So deep in his brooding thoughts as he is, Jon doesn’t notice the subject of his musings until Theon has the decency to point her out.

“Well, well, well,” Theon announces their presence, causing Sansa and Margaery to groan exasperatedly and in perfect unison. Theon is, of course, undeterred. “Fancy meeting you two here.”

“Fuck off, Theon,” Margaery says flatly. She doesn’t spare him a glance as she skims the titles on the shelf in front of her, but Sansa offers Jon a smile so he couldn’t care less about his mate’s less-than-warm welcome.

“Now, be nice,” Theon tuts. He brandishes a finger warningly at Margaery. “Else I’ll tell my sister about your foul mouth and she won’t want a thing to do with you anymore.”

Margaery snorts. “Ha! Go on, tell her I was a prick to you. Ten pounds says she just fucks me harder.”

Sansa’s cheeks go pink. Jon doesn’t wonder at the why; he’s never heard Sansa so much as kiss and tell, so he wouldn’t expect her to take Margaery’s bold and brash conversation in stride, no matter how long they’ve known each other. Sansa’s a good girl, through and through.

 _I wonder how good she’d be for me_ , Jon thinks, and immediately hates himself for the lecherous thought. He might not know exactly how to win Sansa’s heart over, but propositioning her as such surely wouldn’t be the proper way to go about it.

Despite her embarrassment at her friend’s crass talk, Sansa leans towards Jon and mutters, “Honestly I don’t know how much harder it can get. Our walls are so thin,” she adds by way of explanation. “If Marg and Yara go at it any more enthusiastically I might have to move out.”

“Our couch is available,” Jon assures her. _So’s my bed._ “Or we could get rid of Theon, you can have his room.” _Better yet, share mine._

Before he can work up the courage to say something of the sort, or anything that could pass for flirting (but Jon’s shit at flirting, and no amount of romance novels has helped him in that department just yet), Theon’s pilfering Sansa’s attention again.

“Looking for something to tickle your fancy, hm?” he asks the girls. He waggles his eyebrows, just in case they don’t catch his meaning.

Margaery snorts again and Sansa rolls her eyes.

“Theon?”

“Yes, love?”

“You’re an idiot,” Sansa says, at once affectionate and matter-of-fact. She tweaks his chin and nods towards Jon. “Take a leaf out of Jon’s book and shut your mouth every once in awhile. You’d be much more likeable.”

“And more virginal,” Theon scoffs. “No, thanks. The man hasn’t gotten laid in a good two years. I’m not about to follow in his footsteps, last thing I need’s a perpetual case of blue balls.”

Jon cocks his own chin in acknowledgement. “Thanks, mate.”

“Anytime.”

“Theon,” Margaery says, quite suddenly, “you’re irritating me. Go with Sansa and get her a tea, would you?”

Sansa fixes her friend with a glare that piques Jon’s curiosity, but he’s both too polite and too awkward to ask about it, and anyway Margaery is already shooing them in the direction of the coffee counter.

“Go on, Jon and I will catch up,” she insists, “only I want to ask him his opinion on a birthday gift for Sansa. Don’t want to spoil the surprise, do I?”

Margaery bestows a hearty wink that no one, save Sansa, seems to understand. Theon isn’t particularly troubled by it. Jon’s curiosity remains, but he does nothing more than return Sansa’s parting wave, a small smile on his lips when she blushes. That makes him wonder too, but he knows better than to get carried away with it. 

“Okay, listen,” Margaery says, all business, as soon as Sansa and Theon are out of earshot. “I can’t actually tell you what I’m getting Sansa for her birthday —”

“I won’t tell —”

“Very chivalrous of you, Jon, but it’s beside the point.” Margaery slides a book from the middle shelf and pushes it into his chest. “All will be revealed eventually, but in the meantime I highly recommend you read this.”

“What — why — I don’t —” Jon splutters, nearly dropping the book in his haste to cover his tracks. “Margaery, I don’t read romance novels, and even if I did —”

“Spare me,” Margaery deadpans. “Gilly spilled the beans _weeks_ ago. I know you and Sam have been swapping dirty books. Your secret’s safe with me, so long as you read this one.”

Jon quirks one suspicious eyebrow. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“Yes,” Margaery agrees breezily. “Now go pay for that and then meet us at the coffee counter. I’ll spot your espresso or whatever it is straight men who wear scarves unironically drink. Americano, probably.”

Unsure whether or not he should take offense to that (he _is_ a straight man who wears scarves unironically and drinks Americanos, after all), Jon decides it best to follow Margaery’s instructions. He heads to the checkout desk and, in a bid to figure out what exactly she’s on about, studies the cover of the book she’d insisted upon him:

 _Heaving Love, Rising Tide_ is scrawled in swirly gold-leaf across the dust jacket and, beneath the title, an author’s name he doesn’t recognize: _Alayne Stone_.

 _Hmmm…_ Jon frowns, just a bit, as his cursory inspection brings him no closer to solving the mystery of Margaery’s motives. But good things come to those who wait, he supposes.

Besides, he thinks as he offers the checkout clerk a polite smile, Sam and Gilly don’t have any Alayne Stone in their personal collection, as far as Jon knows, and it might be nice to give his more seasoned friends a recommendation for a change.


	3. sexual (re)awakenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: have i sullied the romantic nature of the tale of jenny of oldstones and her prince of dragonflies? PROBABLY. read on to find out...

_When Jenny learns the truth of the man who shares her bed, she’s not confident of what to do with it._

_There were whispers about him — the Prince of Dragonflies, royal-come-rogue, who had taken to the seas when his father exiled him on the words of a prophecy. What precisely that prophecy foretold, no one seemed to know beyond their own suppositions. Jenny certainly held no particular speculation close to her heart; after all, she had only just learned the mystery of his identity. By now his true name seems so trivial in light of what she’d known of him long before._

_She’d never expected this, not a wick of it. She hadn’t taken the job as a serving girl in a pub to meet any man who docked his ship in the town’s port. Such men weren’t looking for a girl like her, for Jenny wasn’t made for night-by-night romps across her scratchy straw mattress. She had been fashioned for love; she’d prayed for it, craved it. She’d spent her girlhood singing its songs and weaving flower crowns and playing pretend._

_And yet, here she has found herself, a woman grown and letting her lover take her on all fours — much less like a lady in a bedtime tale, and far more like a harlot in a bed any man with a bag of silver might buy._

_But Duncan had never made her feel as such. Even now, with his hands on her hips, rutting into her from behind and grunting her name, she doesn’t feel bought, but desired. Wanton, perhaps, but free to explore her pleasure as her lover piques it, again and again and again —_

_“Jenny…” He grounds her name out from between his teeth. She can feel his curls, damp with sweat, upon her spine when he leans forward atop her, fucking her deeper all the while. “You’re so tight, love, so wet…”_

_One of his hands leaves her waist for her cunt. Involuntarily but deliciously, her muscles clench when he thumbs her clit in time to his thrusts — slow and measured in one stroke, harsh and quick the next._

_“This is all for me, isn’t it?” Duncan slips a finger inside of her, only for the moment it takes to gather her wetness, and brings it to her panting mouth. “Tell me, Jenny, it’s for me. Tell me you’re mine.”_

_“Yours.” She takes his glistening fingertip between her lips and sucks, hard. Duncan groans, guttural and long, and he snaps his hips against her arse like a man possessed._

_“That’s my girl,” he growls. His hoarse voice shoots bolts of pleasure through Jenny’s keening muscles, her singing bones, her weeping cunt. His breath is hot on her shoulder as he continues his litany of filthy, lovely praise. “You’re such a good girl for me, always waiting, always wet… I swear I can feel your cunt clench around my cock as soon as I dock my ship, swear I can smell you across the sea whenever I have to leave you…”_

_“Don’t leave,” she begs as he takes her ever more roughly. He palms one of her tits, squeezes, and she moans. He loves it when she begs like this; it makes him fuck her harder, makes her come faster. “Don’t leave again, stay, I want you —”_

_“You have me.” Duncan flips her onto her back, hooks a hand under her knee, and drives into her like he means to stay as she asked, inside of her, making her come apart each time she thinks she’s put together._

_He buries his face in her neck, and she arches to allow the bruises he sucks onto her throat._

_“I’m yours, as you are mine…”_

Jon shuts the book with a decisive _snap_ , and tosses it over his shoulder in a surely fruitless bid to collect himself.

This is, without a doubt, the raunchiest book Jon has ever read. He might have a couple dozen romance novels checked off his to-do list by now, but Gilly and Sam had started him off slow, so as not to shock him — Gilly’s words, as she’d explained: “Men are quite easily shocked. Sam had to take a week off work after I got him started on these books.”

To this day Sam insists he had a bout of the flu and the timing was just unfortunate. But after he’d gotten about a quarter of the way through _Heaving Love, Rising Tide_ , Jon thinks that Sam really was shocked into illness. He couldn’t blame Sam for it, either; Jon suspects he’s on the verge of pneumonia himself, courtesy of all those cold showers he’s been forced into this week. (He’s even more suspicious that this is not precisely how pneumonia works, but what’s a sexual awakening — renaissance, rather — without a little hyperbole?)

Part of the problem, though, isn’t so much the book itself. Jon eyes the thing as though it’s about to do something untoward, however innocuous it seems as it sits in the middle of his kitchen floor where he’d tossed it. The real thing of it is, is that this damn book seems to have captured all of his — and Jon’s a bit of a prude about the word, but it’s the only applicable one — _kinks_ in one tidy, well-written, and unashamedly erotic place.

It’s as though this _Alayne Stone_ (no dust jacket photo or author blurb to be found) knew exactly what he wanted and how he wanted it — though what he really wants is this, with Sansa, but of course some anonymous author wouldn’t know _that_.

Margaery had known about his secret hobby — a fact which he means to address with Gilly at some point, probably — and she’d told him to read _Heaving Love, Rising Tide_ , seemingly for Sansa’s sake. Jon doesn’t know that last part for certain, but after obsessing over all the angles, he hasn’t been able to come up with anything better or more likely than that.

It is _Margaery_ , after all; one way or another, she’s always trying to get everyone laid.

Taking her modus operandi into consideration, is it possible that Margaery knows about Jon’s _other_ dirty little secret — that he wants to do all sorts of dirty little secret things with Sansa? Is this book her way of encouraging him to go for it? And if he is meant to _go for it_ , does Margaery really expect him to take a leaf out of Duncan’s book, as it were, in his efforts to make Sansa his Jenny?

Jon’s mind whirls with the possibilities of doing just that, and — no. He scrubs his hands over his beard. No, he couldn’t. Even if all of his wild conclusions are true, he couldn’t just… _accost_ Sansa that way. It’s all well and good for an erotic romance novel, but surely such behaviour doesn’t apply to real life?

Jon’s mind begins to whirl again, as the possibilities become more akin to fantasies he absolutely could _not_ make reality. He couldn’t just barge into Sansa’s home, push her against the nearest wall, and kiss her with all this raw, heretofore restrained ardor, with teeth and tongue and deep, mingled moans of relief as his hands dragged down that long, sweet body of hers. He couldn’t toss her onto her couch, rip her panties off, dive face-first into her pussy like he’s been _aching_ to do, and make her come with his tongue until she begged him to stop. Begged to have him inside her.

He couldn’t then make a sorry attempt at carrying her — her legs around his waist, ready cunt grinding against his wanting cock, and her pretty mouth on the mad pulse in his neck — to her bedroom, give up halfway there, and fuck her on her kitchen table. Quick and desperate because he _wants_ her and he’s waited _so long_. Hot and hungry because this is it, she wants him and he’ll make her his so she never goes empty again. 

And he couldn’t go down on her again after that, until she’s sated and boneless and whimpering his name. Until her fingers are idly tracing the dips and curves of his muscles and she’s licking her chapped, swollen lips when their eyes meet, their pupils dilate on-contact, and she’s ready for him to take her all over again. Because Jon _would_  — god _damn_ , he would take Sansa as many times as she’d let him.

He can _think_ about it, Jon tells himself as his head drops to rest against the couch and he rubs his hand across his jeans, right over his hardening cock. He can think about slipping that same hand between Sansa’s legs while he fucks her, just to make sure she comes as many times as he can get her to. He can pretend that he’s Duncan and she’s Jenny and that she’s _his_ , so he can suck hickeys down her throat and onto her tits because she’s his and he wants everyone to know.

But he’s not Duncan and she’s not Jenny and Sansa’s not his, so — so — but _gods_ — what if she was? Jon grips his cock through his jeans because _fuck him_ if the thought of making Sansa his is nearly enough to get him off in about point-two seconds flat.

_Mother, maiden, Seven save me…_

Jon keeps telling himself that he couldn’t — he _can’t_ — but the more he imagines it, the less he understands why he couldn’t do precisely… all of this.

_Because you don’t actually know if she wants you to. That’s why, you miserable sod._

_Fuck._ Jon quits fumbling with the snap of his trousers, just as he hears the key turn in the lock and the front door opens. He and Robb have caught each other in more awkward positions over the course of their lifelong friendship, but Jon nevertheless thanks his own shame for giving him pause in his own relief. The last thing he needs is for Robb to catch him jerking off to his sister — not that Robb would know that for sure, but Jon had been close enough that, with his luck, he likely would have been groaning Sansa’s name as soon as the door opened.

Best to leave it for the shower.

“Hey, mate, you about ready?” Robb greets him. He tosses the mail onto the counter, completely oblivious to Jon’s current state of self-inflicted torment. “Theon says we’re meeting at the pub in twenty. The girls are already there, I guess Sansa and Margaery were sending him disparaging snapchats about how he’s gonna have to play catch-up. Now he’s all ‘challenge accepted,’ so I reckon we’d better get going before he busts a blood vessel.”

“Right.” Jon rubs his eyes. Twenty minutes should be plenty of time to jump in the shower and take care of this. Because there’s no way in any of the seven hells that he could leave himself this worked up when he’ll be seeing a dressed-up, tipsy and consequently flirtatious, Sansa. He might actually die. “We can head out soon, I’ve just got to —”

“What’s this? Oh —” Robb pauses on his way to the sitting room to nudge the discarded _Heaving Love, Rising Tide_ with his booted toes. And before Jon can even think to be the least bit sheepish about his secret stash of romance novels being found out, Robb utters what is sure to be Jon’s death sentence:

“I didn’t know you were reading Sansa’s book.”


	4. tough love interference

_Sansa’s book Sansa’s book Sansa’s book…_

Jon can’t stop replaying Robb’s words in his head. Not even when he’d been in his initial state of shock, or when he’d dully replied to Robb’s curiosity about his sister’s literary success — “She told me it was pretty dirty, reckoned I’d be like Dad, y’know, proud of her but not up to actually reading it” — or even when he’d still gotten himself off in the shower, perhaps more vigorously than usual, because now — _now_ —

It wasn’t the anonymous _Alayne Stone_ who had crept into his dirtiest fantasies; it was the girl who’d been there all along.

Jon is torn somewhere between delight and terror at the fact. Because Sansa… She’s just always been so… proper. Sweet. Old-school romantic. And now Jon finds out she’s writing these absolutely filthy books straight out of his wet dreams about her?

He doesn’t deserve this. He’s a good person.

_You were just about to masturbate to explicit sexual fantasies of her in the middle of your sitting room. You’re not that great._

He turns in his seat at the bar, better to catch a look at Sansa playing pool with Arya. Her face is flushed, hair a little mussed, and she’s laughing at something her sister says while she lines up her shot. Jon’s gaze traces the curve of her skinny jeans-clad arse when she leans, just slightly, over the table. A stray tendril of auburn hair sticks to her neck in the humid air of the pub, and all he can think about is getting her all hot and bothered someplace else. Someplace _private_ , where he can take her fast the first time and slow the second, and he can learn every way to make her say his name the way he can’t stop imagining she might.

Sansa straightens when Theon whistles to get her attention, challenging her to the next game. She laughs again — “You couldn’t handle this, Greyjoy” — and as Jon tracks the way she runs idle fingers down her pool cue, he’s pretty sure he can’t handle it, either.

And, of course, by “pretty sure,” Jon means definitely, definitively, _absolutely cannot_ handle it — which is perfectly evidenced by the way he whimpers when Sansa leans over the table again and her shirt rides up to expose the small of her back, the curve of her hip, and Jon whimpers again as he imagines exploring those curves with his tongue.

It’s just his luck that Margaery would catch that second little slip of his vocal chords.

“What are you, an animal?” she demands, albeit teasingly. Her sudden proximity makes Jon jump and nearly upend his beer.

“What are _you_ , a trained assassin?” Jon snarks back. He swipes at a few drops of Guinness that landed on his thigh. “Warn a man before you creep up like that.”

“Please, I could have set off an atomic bomb under your seat and you wouldn’t’ve noticed.” Margaery clicks her tongue. “Too busy fantasizing about tossing Sansa on that pool table and getting to business, were you?

“Which reminds me,” she continues before Jon can attempt (and likely fail) to defend himself, “I assume you’ve gotten a good ways through the book by now? Robb said you were reading it earlier.”

She waggles her eyebrows. Jon snorts and busies himself with his drink.

“You like it, right?” Margaery presses, clearly enjoying herself. “It’s like that Looking Glass song — ‘Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl,’ or whatever, isn’t it? Just a little more like ‘Brandy, Can I Take You From Behind, Girl?’”

Jon chokes on the drink he’s just taken. He swipes more spillage from his front and sets his half-finished bottle aside; clearly, he’s not going to get far on this one until he’s allowed Margaery to say her piece.

“I’m not about to comment on what you just said,” Jon tells her as she awaits a response to her astute literary criticism. He’s never going to be able to listen to Looking Glass again without picturing doing _just that_ to Sansa; a shame, as he quite likes the song, but then he likes his fantasies more. “What I actually want to know is why you neglected to tell me that Sansa wrote that book.”

“What, and spoil the fun?” Margaery widens her eyes and blinks innocently. When that does nothing to quell Jon’s obvious irritation, she relents and punches him in the arm. “Oh, come off it. Sansa didn’t want you to know. Robb only knows because Catelyn told him. Cat told just about everybody we know, she’s pleased as punch. Only reason she didn’t tell _you_ is because I bribed her with her favourite wine.”

Jon doesn’t know what any of this has to do with anything. And suddenly, he’s not even sure that he cares. Here he is, wound-up like a spring, staring after Sansa like some stupid, besotted puppy, all the while _knowing_ that she wrote this delicious filth, and  _knowing_ that she has it in her to want what he’s near-on dying to give her.

He _knows_ all of this, and he’s got no idea what he’s meant to do with any of it.

“What was the point of making me read it if I didn’t know it was Sansa?” Jon asks, his frustration more evident than ever, even as he can’t tear his eyes from Sansa and that smile and those legs and tits and _everywhere_ he wants to touch. “I really don’t fucking understand what you’ve been on about, but I’ve got no idea what I’m doing, either, and frankly I haven’t got time for these stupid fucking games, Margaery, so if you could just —”

“I’m trying to get my best mate laid,” Margaery says, completely unaffected by his tone. Then, when she notices the tic that goes off in his jaw, she rolls her eyes and adds, “Unclench, Jonathan. I’m trying to get _you_ to lay her.”

“I — oh.”

Jon’s tense shoulders relax, if only the minutest bit. So it was what he’d suspected — Margaery really did want him to go for it with Sansa, once he’d jumped through a myriad of hoops first. Vaguely, Jon supposes he should be offended on some level that he’s being pimped out by Margaery Tyrell, but all things considered, he can’t bring himself to protest.

“Why would —” Jon swallows, and tries to regulate his heartbeat when Sansa catches his eye and smiles — “would she like that?”

Margaery looks between the pair of them and grins, quite pleased with herself. “You’re my birthday gift to her, and I give the best gifts. Everyone knows.”

Jon snaps back to attention to scowl at her. “ _That’s_ why you couldn’t tell me what you were getting her?”

“Well, yes,” Margaery says, as though she’s stating the obvious. “You had to read the book first. I know you’re getting hot tips from your romance novel binge, and _Heaving Love, Rising Tide_ is entirely the realization of Sansa’s fantasies.”

 _Mine too._ Jon’s gaze flits back towards Sansa, who is quite unfortunately for him doing blowjob shots with Theon at the moment. Take Theon out of the picture (and Jon can, easily enough), and Jon is quite seriously _shook_.

“Um — that so?”

Margaery smirks. “Like that, do you? Can I assume you also like your hair pulled while you’re chowing down on a girl, then?”

As affronted as he’d like to be, instead Jon pictures just such a scenario (as he has countless times before, but never in _public_ ). Subconsciously he tugs at a loose curl and imagines Sansa’s hands running through his hair, her hips arching to meet his seeking mouth… He licks his lips, again subconsciously, and his eyes move slowly down the lines of her body as she crosses the pub, and he imagines those strutting legs flexing around his ears.

Thankfully, Margaery’s too busy ordering another drink to give him shite about any of this, so he feels safe enough to feign offense without her calling him on it: “Could you not — don’t say it like that.”

“Excuse me, Romeo —” Margaery rolls her eyes again “— allow me to rephrase: Can I assume you also like your hair pulled while you’re making sweet, post-marriage proposal love to some lucky lady’s _womanly place_?”

She accepts her drink from the barkeep and shakes her head at Jon. “Gods. Sansa’s really into dirty talk, you know, so you might want to step it up a bit.”

He _didn’t_ know. Jon blinks. “She is?”

“Did — you — read — the — book?” Margaery asks in such a way that suggests, if she had a copy of said book on hand, she’d use it to smack him upside the head with every word she spoke. Jon supposes he might deserve that. “ _Yes_ , she likes dirty talk. Listen carefully, or you’ll be sure to do this all wrong — ”

“Do _what_ all wrong?”

 _“Listen.”_ Margaery really does smack him this time, just a quick _whack!_ to the back of his skull. Jon huffs, but otherwise keeps his mouth shut.

“Sansa ripped some of the steamiest scenes from her own private journal. It’s total wish fulfillment — that’s what romance novels are,” Margaery explains, much like Gilly had so many months ago. “That’s why they sell so well. This whole venture has been a smashing professional success for Sansa, but if I’m honest I pushed her to do it in large part for her own sexual liberation. Harry left her so miserable and tense all the time, I swear more than once she’d come back from his in near tears because he’d _almost_ get her off and then quit. Poor thing. Orgasm denial is quite uncomfortable, and it wasn’t even part of some great roleplay they were doing. Harry was terribly dull in bed, apparently.”

Jon bites the inside of his cheek, but it does nothing to dispel the low growl that rumbles low in his throat. _Fucking_ Harry Hardyng… If Jon hadn’t been forced to bear witness to his and Sansa’s short-lived relationship, he wouldn’t have believed it transpired at all. The guy was Sansa’s _type_ , to be sure, but she was so out of his league that it still boggles Jon’s mind.

And the fact that he hadn’t bothered to fucking _worship_ Sansa the way she ought to be, only made Jon want to stalk over to where she stood now, knock her onto the nearest table, and eat her cunt ‘til closing time.

“This book was _good_ for her,” Margaery is saying as Jon comes to. “But she still needs a bit of a push. She can write about her kinks all the live-long day, but she needs someone who’s going to act on them with her well into the night. So all of this will be so worth the effort, so long as you ravish her properly.”

“How am I — how do I know how to do it properly?”

As soon as the question escapes him, Jon regrets it. He likes to think he’s more sexually confident than this — his own fantasies are a testament to this fact — and he knows he could treat Sansa right, but when the conversation revolves around her he’s still understandably tongue-tied (he’s good with his tongue, though, so he figures he’ll be able to fix this minor setback once he gets between Sansa’s legs).

“What, you don’t know where to put it?”

Jon picks up his drink again, only to mumble into it, “I know where to put it.”

Margaery purses her lips, trying not to laugh at him, but really it can’t be helped; and she’s quite glad that it’s this sort of man who had so effectively stolen her best friend’s heart. Not that she’ll tell Jon that — no, not until he shows Sansa that he’s going to keep that heart of hers safe and sound. _Then_ Margaery will shower him with the appropriate accolades. But he hasn’t earned them just yet, even if he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from her tonight.

“Isn’t this what you’ve been reading all that erotica for? Pony up, Jonathan,” she says, and knocks him on the shoulder. “That was all preparation for your final exam. Do what the book says. For fuck’s sake, the main character _is you_.”

“What?” At this, Jon graciously spares her a glance. “No, he’s not. He’s Duncan.”

Margaery opens her mouth, shuts it, tilts her head in confusion — surely no one could be this dense? — and opens her mouth again.

“You cannot be serious. He fucking — Jon. Oh my — really? _Really?_ ” She doesn’t even try to stem her laughter now. He asked for it. “You didn’t read the description of all those ‘lean, corded muscles’ and ‘smoldering grey eyes’ and ‘riot of curls black as pitch’ and ‘full, pouty lips,’ look at yourself in the mirror, and at least think, ‘Huh. Weird’? Ha!”

She positively cackles. This is just too rich. “No wonder you never knew Sansa wanted to fuck you. You’re an idiot.”

“I don’t —” Jon gapes, frowns, and a little crease appears between his brows (that little crease that Sansa _adores_ , Margaery knows) “— I haven’t got _pouty lips_.”

“Oh my god, use them on her pussy and she’ll use whatever adjectives you like from now on.”

She expects him to raise another honourable protest to her language, but Jon remains silent. Stoic. He’s watching Sansa again, and the crease between his brows softens with his gaze. Much as he wants to do all those things Margaery’s encouraging him to go for, all the things he’s wanted for so long, it’s just... It’s not enough.

He watches Sansa take another shot, this time with Arya, and the way that she laughs grips his heart like a vise.

Jon wants more. Needs it all. All of _her_. 

His voice is soft when he asks, “Is that all she wants?”

Margaery regards him curiously, as though she’d like to give him a straight answer but isn’t sure that he’s earned quite that level of candor. No, she’d rather he worked for it.

“Have you finished the book?”

Jon shakes his head. There’s more he’d like to ask — _What does she want, Margaery?_ — but he tips his Guinness between his lips and swallows his unsaid words.

“Finish it. Then… do something about it.” Margaery shrugs. There’s little else for her to do at this point. “I’m giving you to next weekend. We’re having Sansa’s birthday at _chez Tyrell_. Get her something good, yeah?”

Jon doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he nods. He doesn’t bother asking what she means by _I’m giving you to next weekend_ ; he’s known well enough that he couldn’t keep putting off his feelings forever. Margaery’s not going to wait around for him to get his act together, and she won’t stand for it if he makes Sansa wait any longer. Maybe a push, or thinly-veiled threat, is just what he needs.

His gaze lingers on Sansa ‘cross the low-lit pub. She deserves more — _so much more_ — than what he’s been able to give her thus far. And he’s not going to wait much longer to be what she needs.

He’s only got to next weekend, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: more sansa pov next chapter, and some MAJOR jonsa interaction (~finally~)


	5. it’s my party (and i’ll have a personal crisis if i want to)

There are some things that Sansa expects out of her birthday — really, she’s ready to expect near anything, knowing and loving the people that she does — but there’s one eventuality in particular that she hadn’t prepared for, too.

An eventuality she’d _never_ prepared for, in fact, but least of all on her own bloody birthday.

Of course, Sansa had known that Margaery would doll her up to the nines, because Margaery loves nothing more than to pamper and shower her friends with uncontested amounts of affection. So the morning at the spa, the mid-morning brunch, and afternoon shopping spree were to be expected as well as enjoyed in equal measure.

The party’s guest list was rather intimidating, but nothing Sansa couldn’t handle. It’s what she and Margaery live for, after all — unnecessarily lavish parties, and it’s even better now because Sansa hasn’t got to worry about planning or hosting or cleaning up afterwards (she certainly _offered_ , but the Tyrells prefer to hire help than take care of such mundane tasks themselves).

Sansa even expected that she would seek out Jon in the crush of attendees. She’s _always_ seeking Jon out, as though when they’re apart she fears that she’d only invented him, just as she had Duncan and Jenny. Because surely he can’t be real, someone _that good_ who’s just within her grasp (but she can never quite convince herself to reach for him).

Certainly she doesn’t expect to make any moves tonight — she doesn’t know if she’ll ever pluck up the courage — but Sansa still knew that she’d have to stop herself from drooling into her second glass of champagne when she finally caught sight of him in his black suit. Open jacket, no tie, top two buttons of his shirt undone, and Sansa dearly wishes she could pop the rest of them, too.

And then maybe she’d run her hands down the hard planes of his chest, maybe she’d make his heart stutter and pound the way he does hers with just a look, maybe he’d wrap his arms ‘round her waist and pull her in close and then, _maybe_ —

She sighs. Then maybe she’d wake up from yet another dream.

Really, that’s all that damn book had done, she thinks, but can’t bring herself to regret it. Even if she can’t act out what she wants, there’s something comforting in _knowing_ what she wants and admitting it to herself — and anyone else who happens to pick up a copy of _Heaving Love, Rising Tide_. But Sansa had used a pseudonym for a reason, so sharing her innermost desires with the world doesn’t bother her overmuch. Alayne Stone filled those pages, and who’s to know that Alayne is really Sansa Stark?

Well, she rather wishes Jon knew, but… Sansa frowns, and downs the rest of her champagne. She’s not about to tell him. She’s not about to tell him anything, although there’s a hundred things she should share, and maybe —

Gods, what’s the _matter_ with her?

Perhaps it’s only the champagne going to her head, but Sansa doesn’t want to think about how complicated she and Jon would be. She doesn’t want to spoil the fantasy with her own jaded, likely exaggerated hopelessness. Because he smiles at her from across the crowded room, and Sansa thinks that it’s really not all that complicated at all; she’s just been over-analyzing it — and that’s to be expected, too.

What Sansa _hadn’t_ anticipated, though, is a scrap of information she learns just as the party’s getting into full-swing, so she’s hardly tipsy at all and not nearly drunk enough to handle said information with any panache whatsoever.

Then again, there’s not enough alcohol in the world that would have prepared her for her sister’s words, anyway, when Arya sidles up next to her in the crowd, her gifted box of chocolates open in hand, and says, “So. Did ya know Jon read your super hot porn book?”

There’s a record scratch in Sansa’s brain, white noise, and suddenly everything else ceases to exist. The conversation, laughter, the clinking of glasses and Loras’ tried-and-true ABBA playlist in the background to _“set the mood”_ — it all vanishes in the wake of Arya’s declaration.

Sansa closes her eyes and focuses on breathing. _Okay, no need to panic. Just because he’s read it doesn’t mean —_

“Oh, and he totally knows it’s you, too,” Arya adds, all nonchalance while she sends her sister into an emotional tailspin.

Sansa’s eyes open, wider than usual, because… _Right. Panic it is, then._

She grabs Arya by the elbow and — except for an _Oi!_ that’s muffled by a mouthful of chocolate, the younger girl doesn’t protest — drags her off to find some privacy. Sansa thanks the gods that Olenna Tyrell, during the construction of her mansion, understood the absolute need for a plethora of coat closets; she shoves Arya into the nearest one before slamming the door shut behind them.

Sansa flicks the light switch on before she rounds on her sister, who continues to look completely nonplussed, and demands, “What do you mean, Jon’s read my book?”

“What’s the big deal?” Arya examines another truffle before popping it into her mouth and talking around it. “I mean, yeah, it’s obvious that Duncan’s what Jon would be if he’d just nut up and come at you already, but —”

_“Obvious?”_

“Well not to _him_.” Arya rolls her eyes. “It’s _Jon_ , there’s no way he knows.”

Sansa is quite sure that she’s never going to leave this coat closet again. _So much for that pseudonym…_ But really her identity is the least of her worries at the moment. “Who else knows?”

“Knows what? That you wrote the book, or that you wrote the book inspired by your thirst for Jon?” Arya winks.

Sansa groans. “The second one.”

“All of the girls. None of the lads,” Arya assures her, and then pops that assurance like a balloon when she adds, “‘cept for Bran. And Gendry because I told him. Oh, and Loras and Renly.” She tosses another chocolate in her mouth and shrugs. “Probably Sam.”

 _And so my well-kept secret is dust in the wind_ , Sansa grouses internally, and aloud she’s as sarcastic as she can be whilst surrendering to what’s sure to be the beginnings of a nervous breakdown.

“Oh, right, _none of the lads_ , then.”

“Jon, Robb, and Theon,” Arya says, as if that’s a fair enough point, “which are the only ones you’d have to worry about, anyway.”

Sansa closes her eyes again, takes a few breaths — measured and deep — and then says, through clenched teeth, “So what you’re telling me is that just about everyone knows that I wrote, essentially, an impassioned, erotic love letter to Jon, and now he’s read it, too, and —” she opens her eyes “— you _don’t think I should be worried about that_?”

“Um, yeah?” Arya shrugs, still more invested in her candies than she is in her sister’s personal crisis. “Maybe he’ll figure it out and ask if you’d fancy a snog or a nice long fuck or like, all his money or something.”

“What?” A tension headache’s forming. “Why would he give me his money?”

Arya barks out a laugh. “Come off it, San. You could say you needed a hand with something and Jon would cut his right off.”

“Well then Jon would wildly misinterpret what I meant by ‘needing a hand with something.’”

“This is really going over your head, isn’t it?” Arya smirks, clearly enjoying herself.

“No, it’s not.” Sansa shakes her head. _It’s really, really not, it’s only that the closet’s spinning like mad now._ “I’m just freaking out.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Arya rubs her arm soothingly, sympathetically. “I almost threw up when Gendry told me he loved me for the first time. It’s a lot. D’you need me to get you a bucket or something? Just in case?”

Before Sansa can take her up on that offer (because she really might need it, _oh Seven, there’s no way Jon’s in love with me — is there?_ ), there’s a tentative knock on the closet door, and Arya yanks it open before Sansa can protest.

Light from the hall spills in, and there’s Jon, fiddling with a black velvet box in his hands and looking the very picture of bunched and worried nerves. That is, until he meets Sansa’s eye, and then he’s smiling and… and…

 _Oh, gods._ Her knees turn to jelly, and Sansa wonders how she hadn’t seen it before.

“Oh, good.” Arya grins at the sight of him, and makes no bones about letting him know why she’s so glad of the interruption. “Have you come to have your way with my sister?”

Jon starts to shake his head, seems to think better of it, and instead replies, “Get out of my way, or I’ll call the Red Keep Zoo and tell them one of their spider monkeys escaped captivity.”

“What exactly are you implying?”

Jon pats her on the head. “We’ll come visit you on half-priced weekends.”

Scowling, Arya smacks his hand away and warns him, “If you want to be my brother-in-law one day, you really can’t talk to me like that.”

“If you want to continue living outside of a wild animal exhibit, you’ll fuck off someplace else.” Jon jerks his thumb over his shoulder for emphasis.

“Seven hells, you’re a monster when you’re celibate,” Arya notes, aghast. She turns to Sansa with another wink. “Give it to him good, San, else he’s sure to hurt all three of my feelings.”

And with that, Arya flounces off with her empty chocolates box, and Jon and Sansa are mercifully — or mercilessly, honestly Sansa can’t decide — left alone. Jon offers her another smile and steps into the closet, shutting the door with a satisfying _snap_ as he goes.

“I wanted to give you your birthday gift privately,” he explains. He glances around and ascertains their surroundings with a simple “I s’pose a coat closet’s as good as anywhere else.”

“Well, it is a coat closet in a mansion,” Sansa reminds him, but she can hardly hear herself over the rampant beating of her heart and the blood pounding in her ears. She’s locked in a dimly lit coat closet with Jon Snow, who is apparently just as in love with her as she is with him, so all things considered it’s a wonder she can speak at all.

She swallows. “So, you know, that’s… pretty good, as far as location goes.”

Jon’s eyes are back on hers, and they crinkle at the corners when his smile widens. Sansa thinks it incredibly unfair that those little crinkles make her heart swoop _this much_ and her panties _this_ damp. But she doesn’t have time to dwell on that delicious discomfort when Jon says, “Guess you’re right.”

He flicks the clasp on the box so it opens, and Sansa is immediately enchanted. Nestled in a cushion of crushed blue velvet is a necklace — a charm of intricately spun white-gold in the shape of a dragonfly, with two aquamarines for eyes and its wings studded with moissanites that wink in the low light of the closet.

She looks up at him, jaw slack, and he looks so pleased Sansa can hardly burst his bubble, and yet — “Jon, I can’t take this.”

He deflates, and it nearly shatters Sansa’s heart to see it (and to know she’d been the reason for it, to boot). “Do you — you don’t like it?”

“ _No_ , gods, Jon, I love it,” she says and means it. She’d love a pile of actual garbage if Jon were the one giving it to her, but _this_ … “But it looks _really_ expensive and I can’t —”

He’s smiling again, and the barest twitch of his lips puts Sansa’s heart right back together (because she’s easy like Sunday morning when it comes to Jon bloody sodding perfect Snow). “I’ll make sure to tell Tormund you said so. He’ll be right chuffed, he made it.”

Sansa blinks, surprised. “Tormund makes jewelry?”

“Yeah, I’m surprised you didn’t know. He hardly ever shuts up about it.”

Jon lifts the necklace from its box, and motions for her to turn around so he can clasp it ‘round her neck.

“He sells it at those Free Folk festivals,” Jon continues as if his head's on straight, even as Sansa’s perfume muddles it. “We should — I mean, I think you’d enjoy it. Maybe I could —” his fingers brush the hair at the nape of her neck, and he isn’t sure which one of them shudders at the contact but he thinks it might have been _both_ “— we could go to the next one. If you want.”

 _Like a date?_ Sansa wants to ask, but when she turns back ‘round to face him, necklace clasped, his hand touches her bare skin and she forgets how to speak entirely. 

Jon straightens the pendant so the dragonfly's jeweled eyes hang right-side out. It falls between her breasts, where her dress is parted to reveal a tantalizing expanse of skin — just more of her that Jon wants to map with not only his eyes, but his hands and mouth as well. His knuckles brush up towards her collarbone — her _décolletage_ , that’s what she’d called it in her novel — and he can feel her breath hitch at the feather-light touch.

His eyes meet hers as his fingertips linger.

Sansa’s are dark as he’s sure his are, her cheeks flushed and Jon can feel the same heat creep up his neck, too.

His hand trembles and her heart stutters.

“So.” He clears his throat and tries for another grin. He would have tried for a kiss instead, but he means to clear the air first. “Romance novels, huh?”

 _“Oh…”_ Sansa ducks her head and covers her face with one hand. “I’m so embarrassed.”

Jon chuckles. He pulls his hand from her collarbone only to tip her chin up so she’ll look at him. “Why? It’s really good, Sansa.”

“No, I’m not… _ashamed_ or anything. It’s just…” Sansa huffs, wondering how much to tell him. But when her hand curls around his wrist and his pulse skips, she thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for him to know.

She’s just so tired of not having what she wants. And if Arya was right, if Sansa’s gut isn’t off, if Jon’s looking at her the way she _thinks_ he’s looking at her, the way — she recognizes now — he’s _always_ looking at her… Then maybe there’s no reason, anymore, for her not to have what she’s wanted longer, _more_ , than she’s wanted anything else.

So she tells him, testing the waters, “I can write about it, but I can’t seem to get it right for myself.”

Jon’s throat bobs, and his fingers tighten their hold on her chin. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right person.”

Her gaze falls as disappointment creeps in, and she mutters, “I guess not.”

“Or maybe,” Jon hastens to add, and Sansa meets his eye again, with an earnest hopefulness she hasn’t felt in forever. _Maybe… ?_ “Maybe you have, and maybe he’s just… _so_ dense, because, you know, he’s been mad about you for ages but he was never sure how to approach you in _that way_.”

He pauses, breath coming harsher and more shallow to match hers. The air in the closet has thickened, heated, and there’s a curious buzzing, ringing, in their ears as they drink each other in with nothing but their eyes and barely-there touches between them.

Jon licks his dry lips, and his gaze drops to Sansa’s scarlet-slicked ones.

“I mean, like I said, he’s an idiot, and he’s sorry it took him this long but by now he really —”

“You seem to know a lot about how he feels,” Sansa observes, and her low, quiet voice makes it hard for Jon to breathe, but —

_It’s now or never, arsehole._

“Yeah.” His hand slips from her chin ‘round the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. “Yeah, I do.”

A pause. Locked eyes, his fingers in her hair and her hand on his thundering heart. Jon blinks, and Sansa does, too.

_Now or never now or never now or never now or now now now —_

“It’s not terribly romantic,” Jon admits, voice hushed, “in someone’s gran’s coat closet and all, but I’m afraid if I don’t do this now…” He shakes his head, and his chuckle is sweet on Sansa’s skin. “ _Somebody’s_ gonna kick my arse, and honestly I might just do it to myself when really I’d much rather…”

He stops, squeezes his eyes shut, presses his forehead to hers… Sansa’s breath hits his lips and Jon’s eyes flutter open to catch onto hers. His fingers twist tighter in her hair and he whispers, “Can I kiss you, Sansa?”

Her smile is shaky, but her hand twists in his shirt and she gasps “Please do,” just as Jon’s mouth takes hers in one heady, fervent slant of lips-on-lips, and he swallows that gasp, exchanging it for his own short, broken moan as he finally — _finally_ — gets his first taste of her.

When this whole thing had started — when Margaery had read her diary and convinced her to take all those fantasies and realize them into a career — Sansa had thought that making a move for Jon would be foolhardy, incredibly stupid, no chance of working out the way she wanted it to.

But she’d been vulnerable then, fresh off the boat of another breakup, and in her jaded state of mind she hadn’t wanted to try again. She’d been tired, spent, hopeless… But now…

 _Hell._ Now Jon kisses her, and she’s never felt more awake.

Lips parted, coaxed further so that they might take the kiss deeper. Tongues slide, tasting, catching soft sighs and moans and whispers of their names before Jon nips at her bottom lip and Sansa kisses him harder in return.

There’s a swooping, falling sensation in Sansa’s stomach — a sense of relief, of _at last_ , and something like a sob breaks between their seeking lips when she tells him, “Jon, I’ve wanted you for so long, and I didn’t think…”

_I didn’t think that you could want me, too._

As if he knows what she’s thinking, Jon shakes his head vigorously as he plucks hard, hurried kisses from her lips. He cups her face in one hand, while the other sweeps down her side and clutches her waist, holding her to him like he can’t get her close enough but _gods_ , that won’t stop him from trying.

“Of course I did,” Jon murmurs, and Sansa thinks he really must be able to read her mind. His mouth drags against hers, even as his eyes look into hers and he tells her, “Of course I want you.”

His mouth catches hers again, hot and fierce, like he wants to convince her in just one kiss how much he wants this — how much he wants _her_. Sansa responds in kind, mouth parting as her arms wind around his neck and she pulls him flush against her — close and heart-to-heart and where she wants him always.

Their ardor and attentions intensify, skin heating, lips furious, hands grasping and stroking and exploring. Jon moves to her neck, sucking kisses along the smooth column of her throat, tasting her rapid pulse and skipping breaths.

Sansa sighs his name, so sweet and hot, just the sound of his name from her smeared-lipstick mouth and the tug of her fingers in his curls, _gods_ , Jon’s getting hard for her.

“I wanna take you home, Sansa. I don’t wanna wait anymore, _fuck_ —” he pushes her up against the door so hard that it shudders in its frame “— I’ve wanted you forever…”

His hands move from her waist to her chest, and Sansa arches into him. Her eagerness makes him growl into the next kiss he plants on her jaw, and his attentions grow hungrier, more desperate, with every sound he pulls from her.

He kneads her breasts through the silk of her dress and whatever she wears underneath (Jon intends to find out what that is, and possibly rip it in two with his teeth). His mouth follows the path of his hands; he nudges the dragonfly pendant aside to lick between the valley of her breasts, exposed by the dress’ deep v-line. Jon can feel Sansa’s heartbeat in his ears, pounding as recklessly, wildly, as his own is for her.

“Do you like that, sweetheart?” he rasps in her ear, and his beard rasps against her skin, too. “You like me touching you, Sansa?” His breath is hot, and he pushes her more firmly against the closet door with his hips. “Lemme take you home, Sansa, where I can touch you more…”

 _“Yes,”_ she moans, without missing a beat, when Jon sucks a hickey behind her ear. She peppers kisses down his cheek, his stubbled jaw, wherever she can reach. “Take me home, Jon.”

He pulls back, chest heaving, only far enough to look at her — but he keeps his hands where they are, determined to never stop touching her again.

“You sure?” he murmurs, and grins when Sansa flashes him a smile so much brighter than the dusty bulb in their coat closet could hope to be.

“Yeah.” She nods, swipes her tongue across her kiss-smudged red lips, and slips her fingers through his. “Take me home, so we can do all those things I wrote about when I was thinking of you.”

As ready as he is to do just that, Jon can’t help himself when he swoops in for another kiss — and another after that — and Sansa’s certainly not about to stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: lol i keep cockblocking you guys with my chapter updates MY BAD the wait will be over soon... ;D


	6. be my happy after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: i was listening to savage garden while i wrote this chapter so it’s really not even my fault that it’s more romantic than dirty. i spent several frustrating days on this so just TAKE IT!!!

The door to Sansa’s flat opens with a _bang!_ , followed by Sansa herself as Jon shoves her up against the wall and dives for her mouth — which he’d only released so she could unlock the door more quickly.

Although, truth be told, Jon would have gotten on his knees for her in the corridor if she would have let him. But apparently she’s got neighbors who wouldn’t approve of such a thing, so Jon had simply waited to accost her until she’d gotten the door open, then he’d pushed her inside and kicked the thing closed in one fluid motion.

She yelps in surprise, but the sound turns quickly to a giggle and then a long, satisfied whine when Jon grinds his hips into hers and groans into her mouth. She likes it when he’s loud for her, he’d realized on the cab drive over (the cabbie hadn’t particularly cared for it, but Jon thinks he made up for it when he paid the man twice their fare for his trouble).

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been thinking about this?” Jon’s voice is thick, breath heavy, as his mouth moves to ravish her neck. He paws at her curves and Sansa scrambles to keep up with his relentless pace. “And then, _gods_ , Sansa, I read that book…”

He whines, rather pitifully, but if you ask Sansa she’d say it was _pretty fucking hot_ — especially when he pushes her harder against the wall and pins her there with his hips.

“How did you know it was me?” she wants to know, and wonders why she has to know something so irrelevant at a time like this — when Jon’s tongue is in her ear and his hands can’t decide between her chest and her pussy so he’s got one on each, kneading and stroking and sending electric currents shooting through her veins.

Jon pulls away from her neck, but keeps his hands on her when he admits, with a sheepish expression despite his blown pupils and heaving chest, “Margaery might have told me… well, everything.” His brow furrows slightly with worry. “Are you angry?”

Sansa considers, but it’s hard to think straight when Jon’s thumb swipes over her breast, where the deep neckline’s been mussed and the lace edge of her bra peeks out. His gaze drops to where his thumb strokes — from the silk of her dress to the lace of her bra to the cocoa-butter smoothness of her skin — and he licks his lips, unable to catch his breath before it escapes in another high, needy whimper.

If she had been angry to begin with, Sansa thinks that sound would be enough to drain her of it — and anything else that wasn’t pure, carnal lust (and perhaps, _definitely_ , a little dash of lovesickness, too).

There’s a hint of a pout on Jon’s kiss-swollen lips, and despite Sansa’s heated skin she can’t help but tease him, “How long would you’ve made me wait if she hadn’t said anything?”

“Another month, give or take?” Jon tries to do the math, but it’s hard to focus on anything that isn’t Sansa’s smile or her body yielding beneath his wandering hands. “Depending on how many panic attacks I had. How long would you’ve made _me_ wait?”

“I’m a complete chicken shite, Jon, I never would’ve said a word.” She smiles, and runs her hands over his shoulders, down his chest… “I’m glad Margaery told you.”

(In fact, Sansa makes a mental note to send two dozen roses to her best friend just as soon as she can pull herself away from Jon long enough to make the order. Margaery loves extravagant floral arrangements so much that she often sends them to herself; she’ll be right pleased if Sansa foots the bill this time.)

It’s as simple as that, and Sansa marvels at how complicated she’d imagined it would be.

_Marvelous what you can accomplish when you’re not so afraid to try._

“Good. Now…” That settled, Jon once more busies himself with the sweet-smelling skin of her neck. He nuzzles against her ear and murmurs into it, “Why don’t you tell me something? Tell me what you want.”

Sansa sighs when the low rumble of his voice meets her skin, and he plucks kisses from the corner of her jaw. Her head’s in the clouds and it’s only Jon’s hands keeping her steady, so all she can think to answer him with is — “You.”

“Damn —” he pulls back, this time just so he can grin at her “— that’s smooth, Stark.”

“I can be a dashing hero when I want to be, too.”

“That so? Well so can I.” And with that, Jon sweeps her up into his arms, bridal-style, and he smiles when she yelps again in surprise. “Where to, my lady?”

On a stream of giggles, Sansa tells him, “Chapter six.”

Jon’s brow furrows again, but in thought rather than consternation. He recalls chapter six perfectly well — hell, he could probably recite the entirety of _Heaving Love, Rising Tide_ from memory, honestly — but…

“You haven’t got a wolfskin rug in front of a fireplace…” With a tilt of Sansa's head towards the sitting room, Jon’s eyes light up with an enthusiastic sort of understanding and his feet follow the path she’d indicated down the hall. “But you _have_ got a priceless Valyrian rug in front of your television.” He grins when she giggles. “Brilliant.”

Much as he’d like to unceremoniously toss Sansa on the floor and have his wicked way with her, hard and fast, Jon instead takes care to lay her on the rug and cover her body with his, slow and soft. His chest rubs against hers when he moves over her, planting kisses up her sternum as he rucks her skirt up her thighs, sweeping his hands over the smooth expanse of skin.

“Is this what you thought about when you wrote that scene, then?” Jon asks with a quirked brow and the hint of a smirk. He presses his mouth to her jaw and thus begins a slow descent down the long, lush lines of her body. “Defiling your treasured antique rug with me?”

 _“Mmmm,”_ Sansa hums, content and giddy when Jon laps at the valley of her breasts. The dragonfly pendant he’d given her slides across her collarbone. “That’s not the only time I thought about it, either.”

“Oh, fuck me…” Jon groans as Sansa laughs. His eyebrow quirks again. “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you? Unmanning me like that?”

Sansa starts to say yes, it _is_ rather funny, but the words die in her throat when, suddenly, Jon flips up her skirt and tears her panties in two and then — _and then…_

“ _Oh_ , fuck me,” she gasps, echoing Jon’s own curse from just a moment ago. Her hands push into his curls, seeking purchase as he shoves her legs upwards, so that they’re bent at the knee and she’s more open to him, and he latches his mouth onto her cunt.

Really, Sansa should have seen this coming, she thinks through the haze of Jon’s tongue slipping inside of her. It’s how she’d written the scene, after all — Duncan and Jenny, caught up in the moment, and he wants her so much that he takes her, right there on the wolfskin rug, he dives into her cunt like he’s a starving man and she’s his last meal…

“ _Mmmm_ , fuck, Sansa,” Jon moans into her folds, so that his praise reverberates against her clit and it makes Sansa expel a sharp cry of his name. His hands tighten on her hips. “That’s right, sweetheart… keep saying my name.”

He doesn’t give her much of an opportunity to _stop_ , as he takes her cunt with his mouth continuously, vigorously, _enthusiastically_. Sansa twists her fingers in his curls and tugs, and it only makes Jon more attentive; he knows every last one of her sweet spots, and he uses such knowledge to both of their advantages.

Honestly, Sansa thinks as his fingers join his tongue, it’s no wonder she wrote fifty thousand words dedicated to her love — her _thirst_ , as so many of their friends would put it — for Jon sodding Snow.

He makes her come like nothing else — like _no one_ else, even Sansa herself. Because no matter her self-confidence, no matter her comfort and familiarity with her body, with what she wants and needs and has always been after, it’s something entirely different to have someone else care about that, too.

It’s something entirely different, to all at once have what you’ve always wanted, with who you’ve always wanted, when you’ve been made to believe that you’d never find it.

Sansa is still coming down from her release when Jon promises her another.

“Fuck,” he mutters into the space between her thighs, where he’s panting between the wet, open-mouthed kisses he sucks onto her skin. His hands sweep down to soothe her trembling legs, then upwards to hold her hips, and he jerks her back to his mouth. “I want to do that again.”

So, he does.

He recalls what Margaery told him last week — how Sansa had been so tightly-wound when she was with Harry and all the ones before, how they hadn’t cared enough to make her feel good, how they hadn’t cared enough to want to make her come. Much as Jon doesn’t care to think of any other man but him trying — to make Sansa quiver and cry and sigh his name, hands roughly tugging in his hair, thighs straining, cunt clenching beneath the press of his mouth and the tease of his fingers — Jon hates it even more that no one had thought to give to Sansa what he does now.

And now that Jon _knows_ — knows the way she tastes, the way she comes, the way her body arches into his as she does — he won’t let anyone else have the chance again.

“There you are, sweetheart,” he growls into the cant of her hips. “Come on, Sansa —” Jon inhales her oncoming orgasm, so hot and tangy and saccharine, and concentrates on her clit to hurry it along “— let go for me again, I wanna taste you when I make you come…”

After her second wave crashes over her, Sansa is catching her breath, so Jon takes his time with her. It’s like they’ve got all the time in the world (and they do), like he doesn’t mean to waste a moment of it (and he doesn’t), as he kisses his way back up her body, languid and sweet.

Her hand jerks in his hair, to bring his mouth to hers, and she tastes herself on his tongue when it dips between her lips — hot and musky and _his, all his…_

“I think I’d like to revisit chapter six again tonight.” Jon grins into their kiss. “Maybe in your shower later.”

Sansa huffs a breathless sort of laugh. Her eyes are dark, skin flushed, and lips swollen as they crack into a smile to match Jon’s own. She traces the shape of his with reverent fingertips; the touch makes Jon shudder and lean into her.

“Oh, we’re revisiting the whole book tonight,” Sansa assures him. Her free hand goes to his waist as she arches against him invitingly. “Which chapter do you want to reread next?”

When Jon’s gaze drops to her chest and he tells her _chapter five_ as though he’s been thinking of it for weeks, Sansa really should have known what to expect. But she’s up and in Jon’s arms before she can consider it. And, besides, she’s too busy to bother as she kisses Jon’s neck whilst he carries her to the bedroom.

“Do you want me to drop you?” he tries to tease, but the effect’s spoiled when Sansa sucks behind his ear and he groans. He squeezes her hip before setting her back on her feet, and he takes her mouth before she can laugh at him.

Their hands are everywhere — popping buttons and tugging zippers, roaming freshly revealed soft skin and hard muscles, all hot to the touch, rampant heartbeats and heaving chests.

Sansa shimmies out of her dress so that it pools at her feet, and Jon shrugs out of first his jacket, then his shirt, gaze heated as it rakes over her scantily-clad form — nothing but miles of smooth peach skin, strategically covered by one swatch of lace across her chest. (The one that had been slung about her hips had been nearly torn in two by Jon’s eager attentions earlier, and shoved into his trouser pocket, never to be returned.)

He feels her gasp catch in her throat when his mouth locks onto her neck. Her hands are in his hair, fingers spearing through his curls and pulling. Jon groans and rasps his beard against her jaw, the way he knows she likes because he’d read that damn, marvelous book of hers, and he plucks kisses down, down, down…

He mouths at her breasts over the delicate lace — Sansa’s hands slip between them to undo his trousers, to tease his aching hardness with her touch — and then Jon latches onto the front clasp of her bra and rips it off with his teeth.

“Jon!” Sansa admonishes, half in protest, but her pupils are blown and there’s a smirk toying with the edges of her kiss-swollen mouth. “That was my favourite bra, you idiot.”

“I told you chapter five, didn’t I?” Jon reminds her, more or less untroubled by her outburst since he’s feeling her up during it. “Duncan tears Jenny’s clothes off with his teeth. I thought you saw that one coming.”

“To be fair, Duncan _bought_ Jenny those clothes. Whereas I have to buy my own.” Sansa tries to grouse, but it’s difficult to maintain a temper when Jon’s squeezing her tits and licking his way up the space between them.

Jon smirks against her collarbone. “I’ll buy you more lingerie if you want,” he promises, and nudges her gently ‘til the backs of her knees hit the bed. “Only you have to agree to show them off to me afterwards.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Oh, no?” Jon takes her mouth again, harshly, nipping at her lips and plundering with his tongue. He swallows her moan and pulls back, breath coming as harsh as his kiss, and gives her a sharp smack to the arse. He grins when she bites back another giggle. “On the bed, then, love.”

She scoots backwards, towards her pile of too-many pillows; Jon follows, clambering over her as he kicks out of his trousers and Sansa pushes his boxers down. He carefully removes the dragonfly pendant from around her neck and sets it on the bedside table, and kisses the spot where the charm had lain. Her heartbeat stutters beneath his lips.

“How do you want it, love?” he husks into her ear. His fingers slip between her legs as he sucks on her neck. “How do you want me to fuck you the first time? Chapter four? Seven? Nine, twelve, thirteen?”

“Eight,” Sansa sighs against his cheek, and Jon’s heart skips in his chest.

_Chapter eight…_

Margaery had told him to read _Heaving Love, Rising Tide_ all the way through, to finish it, so that he’d know that Sansa wants more — just as he does. The book caps off at fourteen chapters, but Jon had known by the eighth that Sansa wants him just the way he wants her. He wonders if this is her way of telling him so, of _showing_ him; Jon can’t be sure, but he intends to show her right back all the same.

His thumb sweeps her cheek, gaze searching hers. Her answering smile is small but genuine — heartfelt. And for all his doubts and insecurities before, suddenly Jon has never been more sure of _anything_ , ever, than he is of Sansa now.

He’s about to tell her so, but then she’s leaning in and so is he, and he figures he can tell her after.

 _We’ve got all the time in the world_ , Jon thinks as the kiss goes on, slow and deep. His fingers trace her face as hers dance over his shoulders. _I’m not letting her get away from me now._

Fumbling hands, lips caressing, soft laughs and moans — the give of the mattress when Jon alights from it to fetch a condom from his discarded jacket’s pocket (he’d come to Sansa’s party prepared, just in case), and the dip of the bed when he leaps back onto it with a triumphant grin.

Sansa’s fingertips paint him with her touch, and Jon plants little purple bruises behind her ear.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, making her blush even as she rolls the condom over his length, even as he nestles himself between her legs.

The way he looks at her drives her damn near crazy — as tender as his touch, as earnest as the words he murmurs as he eases himself inside of her:

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” but she tells him to keep going.

 _Anything_. He kisses her, and her lips cling to his. _Anything for her._

“Is that good?” he husks, and she sighs a high-pitched _yes_. Her back arches, head tilted back, and Jon runs his tongue across the exposed underside of her jaw. Sansa’s hands slip to his waist, urging him on.

“You want it harder, sweetheart?” he wants to know, and she responds with the increased thrust of her own hips. Jon groans; he can hardly take his eyes from hers, but he buries his face in her neck because he wants to make this last.

He can feel her mouth at his ear, her breath coming in sweet, panting sighs against his skin that sings with her touch.

It’s a slow worship, the way that Jon loves her and Sansa loves him back this first time; the tempo is gradual, rhythmic. Jon trails soft kisses everywhere he can reach, and Sansa touches him everywhere, making him tremble as she explores. No one’s ever touched him the way Sansa does — carefully yet thoroughly, soft yet insistent, like she means to memorize him.

It makes his heart flutter and soar; Sansa can feel it beneath the press of her palm, and she kisses the hollow of his throat, where his skin is salty from sweat and his pulse pounds wildly for her.

 _“Sansa…”_ Jon grits his teeth and fucks her harder. His hands clench into the sheets — once, twice, before one seeks hers out; their fingers tangle and clasp together and Sansa whispers into his ear that she never, ever wants him to let her go.

“I won’t,” he swears — a promise he can keep, and he seals it with the push-and-pull of his lips to hers once more, with the sweet cadence of his mouth on hers, the languid slide of their tongues, with the bob of his throat as he tries to catch his breath and swallows hers instead.

“This is so much better with you than by myself,” Jon tells her, and Sansa laughs into another kiss. “I don’t want to imagine this ever again.” His grip on her hand tightens, and she squeezes back when she tells him that he won’t have to.

“You can have me as long as you want me,” Sansa promises, and she hopes that means _forever_ without knowing that’s precisely the word that pops into Jon’s head, too.

 

* * *

 

After, they lay together, sprawled across the disheveled sheets and twisted up in Sansa’s pretty grey comforter.

“It matches your eyes,” she’d observed, and her fingers moved from the blanket to trace Jon’s eyebrows. He’d taken her wrist to press a kiss to it, and they’d been holding hands ever since.

With his free hand, Jon skims patterns across her arm — indistinct shapes and hearts and his name plus hers. She smiles at his ministrations and cuddles closer, so that Jon barely has to move an inch to kiss her forehead.

So he does just that, and asks her in a hoarse undertone, “Can I tell you something?”

“Not if I tell you first,” she mumbles sleepily, but all the same she’s ready for round two just as soon as he is.

Jon chuckles. “You don’t even know what I’m going to —”

“I love you.”

“Oh.” He blinks, and a blush spreads over his cheeks when Sansa glances up at him. She looks right pleased with herself, so Jon can’t help his smile. His hand slips to her lower back and he nudges her closer, flush against him. “So you did know, then.”

“I certainly hoped so,” Sansa confesses.

“In that case, let me assure you…” Jon rolls on top of her again, all the better to rain a thousand more kisses across her temples, her cheeks, and her mouth as it cracks into a smile and a laugh escapes. “I love you, too.”

 _Funny how fifty-thousand words can boil down to three_ , Sansa thinks, but she would have written fifty-thousand more if she’d needed to.

Jon pulls their joined hands to his lips to lavish hers in pecks and whispers and another small, husky chuckle, and Sansa knows that he’s worth every last word she’ll come to write about him.

 

* * *

 

**SANSA STARK is in a relationship with JON SNOW**

_81 likes_  
_14 comments_

 **ARYA STARK** : okay………… but did you fuck in margaery’s gran’s closet, is the question we all REALLY want answered

 **MARGAERY TYRELL** : nana would be tickled pink if you did  
good going, **@Jon Snow**. knew you had it in you ;D

 **ROBB STARK** : I was going to say congrats, but now I’ve got to rinse my eyes with acid, thanks **@Arya Stark**

 **ARYA STARK** : **@Robb Stark** ur welcome

 **THEON GREYJOY** : NICE  
but also??? how the fuck did this even happen

 **GILLYANDSAM TARLY** : Because **@Jon Snow** listened to me, did his romance novel research, and subsequently bagged himself a woman.

 **JON SNOW** : Bagged himself his dream girl, really. :) Thanks again, **@GillyAndSam Tarly**  & **@Margaery Tyrell**.

 **THEON GREYJOY** : oh, barf

 **SANSA STARK** : Have fun with your hand again tonight, **@Theon Greyjoy**. Make sure you switch ‘em up every so often, though; your right arm’s starting to look a little more toned than your left.

 **ROBB STARK** : LOL

 **THEON GREYJOY** : god damn it that was a sick burn

 **JON SNOW** : **@Sansa Stark**  god that was so hot

 **ROBB STARK** : DUDE

 **SANSA STARK** : **@Jon Snow** ;*  
Oh **@Robb Stark** my sweet summer child… if you think THAT’S bad, I’ll tell you right now: Don’t read my next book.

 

* * *

 

(Indeed, while _Heaving Love, Rising Tide_ had been written in a storm of Sansa’s fantasies, her second book is a direct result of the way Jon loves her in real life.

Life imitates art imitates life, and all that.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: thanks for reading!! this one was really cool to write, esp from the perspective of an aspiring romance novelist such as myself, so i had a blast (when i didn’t want to punch myself in the face over it, anyway)! and another special shoutout to amy, for coming up with the prompt and letting me take it on!! ya the cat’s pajamas and an inspiration!


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